A Different Blue(85)

Bravo! Now go, and don't let the door hit you in the arse!” Wilson growled.

“I'm not buying it. Does the Revolutionary war ring any bells, Mr. Professor?”

“All right then. Actually, Mum is in town, along with Alice and Peter and my three nephews.

It's too blasted hot to barbeque, but Tiffa's flat has an amazing view of the strip – so the

fireworks are brilliant – and best of all, there's a pool on the roof.”

It had averaged 118 degrees all week. Hot didn't even begin to describe it. The thought of a

pool was almost too wonderful to contemplate. Then I thought of how I would look in a bathing

suit and felt my enthusiasm wane.

“So why are you asking me? Where's Pamela?” I was proud of how innocent and conversational I

sounded.

“I'm asking you because you informed me that you are out of wood, you are bored, you are hot,

and you are cranky.” That much was certainly true. Wilson had come down to the basement to do

some laundry and found me staring at my empty work bench mournfully, trying not to melt into a

hot mess all over the concrete floor. I had neglected my wood gathering expeditions lately. The

heat combined with pregnancy made me an absolute wuss. Now I was paying for it. A whole day off

and nothing to sculpt.

“And Pamela's in Europe,” Wilson added, moving a load of his clothes to the dryer. Of course

she was. People like Pamela hobnobbed all over Europe with their hobnobby friends. But if Pamela

was gone . . .

“Okay,” I agreed. “Bring on the barbeque!”





Wilson's mother looked nothing like him. She was blonde, slim, and looked very much like an

English aristocrat. She would look very at home in a wide brimmed hat watching a polo match and

saying 'Good form!' I could see a resemblance to Tiffa in her willowy figure and wide blue eyes,

and Alice looked exactly like her, only less serene. The lack of serenity might have been the

result of the three little red-haired boys bouncing around her, over her, under her. Alice

looked frazzled and irritated where her mother seemed cool as a cucumber. I wondered if Wilson

favored his dad. If not for Tiffa's curly hair, I might think he was the product of a torrid

affair. The thought made me snicker. Joanna Wilson did not do torrid affairs, I would almost bet

my life on it. But she was crazy about Wilson, no doubt about it. She held his hand in hers

while they talked, hung on every word he said, and patted his cheek countless times.

I hung back, awkward in the close family setting, and spent most of my time in the pool playing

with the kids, throwing weighted rings to the bottom over and over again so they could retrieve

them like tireless puppies. Tiffa joined me after a while, and the kids piled on her eagerly,

little wet bodies scrambling to hold on as she giggled and dunked herself – and them – several

times. I was surprised by her physical play and the obvious affection she had for her nephews. I

wondered suddenly why she didn't have any kids of her own. She seemed much more suited to

motherhood than poor Alice, who sipped an alcoholic beverage in a nearby pool chair and squealed

every time one of the boys splashed too much. What had the woman been thinking having three

children one after the other? Maybe, like me, she hadn't been thinking at all.

Tiffa had met and married Jack, a native Las Vegas boy, when he was completing his residency at